The news story about the livestock transporter accident a few weeks ago was enough to restart the conversation again in our house. 1,600 young piglets out for a ride, to where they did not know, suddenly found themselves overturned on Hwy 533, some mortally wounded, the others scattering into the woods looking for shelter, water, or maybe adventure. Little did these small beings know that this was just another step on the road to the bacon factory. Despite it being BLT season, we almost said this was enough to convert a person to veganism.
Almost.
Every time we pull up beside one of those animal transports with their load of cows, calves, pigs, sheep, or horses Martha says something unappetizing about eating these creatures. Of course, we can both get a little maudlin about keeping and then eating a slot-size walleye or a nice plump bass. Neither one of us can look a lobster in the eye when we pass those watery cages with their rubber-banded claws that do taste very nice with a little drawn butter. Thank heavens we can pretend that surf and turf is too expensive for our budget.
We have been cutting back on the amount of meat we eat partly from the desire to slow the industrial slaughterhouse system and partly because we don’t need, because of our age, as much red meat, chicken, pork, and fish as we used to. We are taking vitamin pills and competing with the ruminates in the amount of greens we consume. I am partial to a nice salad and I like a couple of layers of lettuce on a sandwich but there is something in my nature that likes a little piece of red meat every once in a while.
We have friends who rail against the inhumanity of killing animals for their flesh. They are also against egg factories although they will buy farm eggs laid by hens that are reported to have the run of the ranch. Lately, we have been buying ‘free range’ eggs even though we know that free-range thing is a load of Bull. Baloney. Horsefeathers.
Our friends invited us for spaghetti dinner last week. The only spaghetti sauces the cook in that house will make is marinara, which was okay, but when I asked for some cheese to give it some life, I was told they are now off cheese. Cheese is made from cow or goat milk and that milk is taken from animals tied inhumanely in their stalls etc., etc. Would I like a few soy crumbles on my spaghetti?
(That word ‘inhumane’ when used regarding the treatment of animals always bothers me. I mean, look how we too often treat our fellow human beings – and we want that to apply to our animal friends?)
Soya sauce on my Chinese food is one thing, and I’ll even eat a little tofu with my Chow Mein, but this idea of eating soya beans in everything does not sit well with my gourmand stomach. I ate one of the non-meat burgers and stroked that off my list. I tried one of those lettuce-wrapped teen burgers (grass-fed steers) at the Arrive & Wait and it was okay – definitely better than the tofu ‘turkey’ sandwich served down the street that some mad scientist had said was delicious, nutritious, and she used only turkey feathers or poultry seasoning for flavour.
Nonetheless, our friends Tom and Georgette (not their real names) said we should try veganism. My argument that vegetables were living things too did not carry much weight. But Tom and Georgette did not know my mother-in-law (RIP). Mum was a wonderful gardener. Her vegetables and flowers loved the plot of well-fertilized land on the old farm. She beat back the weeds and encouraged the veggies with kind words. Yes, she talked to her plants.
Over the years I noticed one peculiar thing about Mum and her garden. Whenever in the late afternoon she needed to harvest a veggie for our dinner, she would take a glass of red wine, consuming several large sips to fortify herself, and then go to the garden. I finally questioned the habit and she said it was because she was killing the carrots. They cried as she pulled them from the ground. Really? I thought.
Well, upon investigation, under the cover of darkness, I went to the garden and pulled three carrots from the clay/loam soil, listening for cries of distress. They squeaked. My botanist friend at the university said that the carrot has many very fine root hairs that would break off as the carrot was pulled from the ground. What I heard, and my ears must be quite sensitive she said, was the hair roots breaking. Mum did have acute hearing.
Back to Tom and Georgette and their veganism. I knew they were Selective Christians so even though I knew better, I mentioned a couple of references in the Holy Bible about the creator making all things for our dominion; a few words about burnt offerings; and then finished my argument with the loaves and fishes. You ought not to mention religion with veganism or much of anything else it seems. Martha came to my rescue.
“You remember cousin Herbert and his yellow beans?” She went on to tell the tale about how Herbert loved fresh yellow beans – cooked to softness, a little salted butter, and a dusting of pepper – Herbert would eat a whole meal of yellow beans, commenting of how much he loved them. His wife became jealous of the beans saying he loved the damned beans more than her. Melanie believed in reincarnation and said she was going to come back as yellow beans – so Herbert would love her again. Well, Melanie died and Herbert, remembering her words, never ate a yellow bean again.
Tom smiled at the story but Georgette looked me straight in the eye and said, without a smile, “I am coming back as a cow.”
At least she didn’t say ‘a pig’ and I can still enjoy a BLT. I mean, who would ever want to come back as a pig? Although the expressions on the faces of those little piglets from the upset truck did look a little. . . human. Just saying.
